


Just in Time

by addicted2hugh



Series: Just in Time [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV John Watson, POV Third Person, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 01:42:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16187465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicted2hugh/pseuds/addicted2hugh
Summary: What would have happened if John had visited 221B one last time before asking Mary to marry him? Just to get the past out of his system? And what if Sherlock had already been home, rehearsing his "I'm back" speech without noticing that there's someone behind the door, listening?





	Just in Time

**Author's Note:**

> John doesn't wear a moustache in this story. Like Sherlock, I think the moustache was ridiculous. It's only acceptable on Victorian Watson!
> 
> I've never written a first kiss fic in which the whole thing didn't end up in smut afterwards, so I'm not sure about the rating. John /thinks/ about sex more or less explicitly, so I went for "mature". If you think "teen and up" would suffice, let me know!
> 
> Also, comments and kudos are always appreciated! <3

Twenty-two months after losing his best friend, John Watson decides to find closure. He's going to get engaged tomorrow. If Mary says yes, that is, but he's almost sure she will. A new life is going to start, and he needs to get rid of the last traces of his old one that are still lingering about his person wherever he goes, that refuse to let go of him even though he tries to shake them off with all his might.

He wants to stop thinking about Sherlock's icy, unseeing eyes as he lay on the ground with so much crimson blood running down his face. He wants to stop tearing himself apart by wondering whether he could have prevented it somehow. He wants to stop regretting the things he didn't say while he had the chance. There's no point.

To free himself of the memories that are still haunting him, it's only logical to return to the place where it all started such a long time ago, so he goes to Baker Street and lets himself in with his old keys. Mrs Hudson told him to keep them when he moved out,  _just in case, dear_ , and he's happy that he doesn't need her to do this today – he'd rather be on his own. When he's done what he's come here to do, he can knock on her door and say goodbye, and then leave,  _sans_  keys, and it'll be fine.

It'll be over.

He makes his way up the stairs silently, trying to keep his steps soft and light – he can't talk right now, not to Mrs Hudson, anyway. He needs to concentrate. He needs to let it all flow over him,  _into_  him, despite the pain that's mounting with every step he takes. He can't move on if he doesn't force himself to let go, and he can't let go if he doesn't allow himself this grief, if he doesn't confront himself with it, only one last time.

In front of the door, he stops. His old flat.  _Their_  flat. It all looks exactly like it did the day he went away, and it all smells like it used to back then, too. Mrs Hudson's baking, the zesty aroma of tea leaves, the papery dryness of the peeling wallpaper, the well-trodden, dusty floorboards. Even a faint hint of Sherlock's aftershave seems to be there, warm, woody, and barely noticeable, but that's probably just his brain playing tricks on him. Sherlock hasn't been around for almost two years now. His scent can't still be here.

_God, I miss him. I still miss him so much._

He swallows and closes his eyes for a moment, bracing himself. It's more difficult than he thought. Telling himself that it has to be like this, that there's absolutely no other way, he then opens his lids again and slowly reaches out to put the key into the lock.

_Come on, John. Do it._

Suddenly, there are footsteps approaching him from the other side of the door, and a muffled voice, apparently just finishing a sentence.

"…supposed to say?"

John freezes, his hand hovering in mid-air. There's someone inside the flat. Mrs Hudson has re-rented it. Someone's inside, talking, and John almost walked in on them. His arm falls to his side again.

"No, that's not it… What about…"

The person – a man, John thinks – seems to be pacing around the living-room, muttering (to himself? to another person?) randomly, and John, torn between disappointment and relief, turns to walk back down the stairs.

That's that, then. 221B has already moved on. He might as well.

"I'm--- sorry," the man says, and something about his voice sounds familiar. "I'm… God,  _no_. That's  _terrible_."

_Thud._

Did he just punch the wall?

" _John._ "

John's knees buckle and he sits down on the floor. Just like that. Right in front of the door. His head is spinning.

"Please don't be scared. It's me. I'm… ( _sad? back?_ ) It was all just--- just a trick… ( _unintelligible murmuring_ )  _protect_  you."

_What?_

The man's voice keeps coming in waves, sometimes clearly, sometimes not more than a distant mumble. He must be making circles through the flat, walking up and down, passing the door every so often.

John is afraid he'll faint.

"…mad at me – I understand… ( _mumbled words_ ) But John--- Please forgive me."

_It can't be._

"God! That's  _tedious!_ "

Oh God. Oh God.

"…normal people  _do_  this?"

Oh God.  _Sherlock._ It's Sherlock. _Oh God_ …

John's mind is whirling, trying to get itself around the ludicrous idea that's slowly forming in front of his inner eye, and he wonders if this is real. Maybe he's dreaming? This wouldn't be the first dream of this kind – at night, even with Mary lying next to him, he'd often come "home" and find Sherlock there, and they'd hug, because their dream selves apparently do that, and sometimes they'd have dinner, or tea, or work on cases, and sometimes, they'd do entirely different things, too. Intense, forbidden things. Things John tries to forget once he wakes up (it hurts too much), but which he thoroughly enjoys as long as the dream lasts.

"…couldn't tell you. Too dangerous," the man who can't be the real Sherlock continues his ramblings, and then, from the sound of it standing right behind John, only separated from him by some thin wooden boards and a bit of wall, he says: "I missed you. I'm sorry."

There's a long pause.

Then, very quietly: "John, I--- love---"

John presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. They're burning.

"Don't be  _ridiculous_ ," the man ( _It's Sherlock. It can't be Sherlock._ ) then spits, his voice filled with self-loathing, and there's a rustling sound in the background that John has heard before.

_The Belstaff._

The door behind him opens with a small creak, and he half-turns his head and looks up, his hands now clasped in front of his mouth. He's scared he might scream, or say something weird. He's scared he's going insane.

Sherlock is very, very pale, and thinner than John remembers him. His hair is the same, though, and his suit, and his scarf, and his coat.

And his eyes.

He's staring down at John, his lips slightly parted, and John feels himself fall into the two orbs of brilliant, blinding light-blue directing their gaze at him, and his heart skips a beat and then begins to thump so loudly that he's amazed Sherlock doesn't have to raise his voice to drown it out when he finally speaks.

"John," he whispers.

John shakes his head. This  _can't_  be real.

Sherlock's face twists into an expression of such agony that John can barely take it – how is his mind coming up with images of Sherlock looking like that? He never looked at John this way when he was still alive.

"I'm hallucinating," John rasps, his voice muffled by his own hands still hiding his mouth.

Sherlock steps in front of him then and lowers himself down on his knees, his expensive trousers scraping the floor, collecting dust and tiny splinters of wood as he does so.

"No," he says lowly, carefully.  _Gently._ "You're not. It's me, John. I'm sorry. I--- I'm so sorry. I wanted to do this differently."

Sherlock, speaking so softly, saying  _sorry_. This  _must_  be a dream, then. Sherlock doesn't say sorry. He doesn't look like that, either, eyes all glassy, flushed cheekbones, trembling hands. This is not Sherlock.

"You're dead," John tells him, still speaking through his fingers. "I saw you die."

Sherlock inhales, loudly, and it sounds like a small sob.

"I'm sorry," he repeats. "I needed to protect you. He--- he'd have killed you if I hadn't pretended to jump."

John shakes his head again.

Sherlock sighs, but it doesn't sound exasperated. It sounds small and lost.

"What do I have to do to prove it to you? I'll do anything, John," he says, his tone desperate. "Anything."

John, sitting cross-legged on the floor, lets his hands sink into his lap then and fixes his eyes on the vision insisting that he's the real thing while behaving so out of character that it hurts his head to witness it. He wants to believe him, with every fibre of his being, but the rational part of his brain is reluctant to do so.

"Be--- more like yourself, then," he says, his voice a little firmer now. "And  _who_  would have killed me?"

Sherlock stays completely still for a second, studying John's face, but then purses his lips and frowns at him.

" _Who?_  Moriarty, of course," he answers, and it doesn't come out quite as loftily as it used to in the past. Nevertheless, John can tell he's doing his best. " _Do_  try to keep up, John."

Sherlock's words reverberate in the otherwise silent hallway. John stares at him, a violent shiver running down his spine. He's both hot  _and_  cold and still feels slightly dizzy. His back is covered in goose bumps, and briefly he asks himself if he's maybe going into shock. He felt like this after being shot in Afghanistan.

Time stops for what feels like several days.

Everything inside of John is screaming at him that this can't be happening, that he's crazy, finally pushed into losing it by the memories, the trauma that visiting this house has evoked in him – everything but his heart. His heart is beating against his ribs so wildly that his head can't keep up and eventually switches to auto-pilot.

"You _git_ ," John breathes. Never before has he been so incredibly furious and yet so deliriously happy at the same time. "You fucking  _arsehole_. How could you  _do_  that to me?"

Sherlock gasps when he pulls him towards himself by the lapels of his coat and slings his arms around him underneath, digging his fingers into his shoulder blades. Sherlock flinches, but doesn't try to move away.

"Careful," he rumbles shakily. "My back."

Although it hasn't registered with him what Sherlock means by that, John loosens his grip, and immediately he feels the younger man relax into his embrace. He buries his face in the crook of Sherlock's neck, shoving his scarf aside with his nose, smelling him,  _feeling_  him, and then Sherlock finally puts his arms around him in return and holds him tight, his open coat enveloping John like a blanket, taking away his sight. But he doesn't need to see right now. He closes his eyes and lets Sherlock's warmth seep into him from everywhere at once, listening to his quick, shallow breathing.

"I'm sorry… I--- I missed you," Sherlock mumbles into his hair.

John clings onto him, afraid of losing himself if he lets go. He hated Sherlock for leaving him, for ripping himself out of his life just like that, without saying goodbye or telling him the reasons why. He was in so much pain; he mourned him with all of himself, body and soul – up to the point of contemplating taking his own life, too, just to make it all stop. Only in the past six months, things have slowly begun to regain some semblance of normalcy again. He's got a job, a girlfriend. He's got a small box holding an engagement ring in the pocket of his jacket. This is not what he expected to find when he decided to come here this morning. This is not what he was prepared to see, to  _feel_. He doesn't understand half of what's happening to him right now.

He came here to let go of Sherlock. Now it feels like he doesn't have to, after all.

"I know," he replies. "I heard you."

Sherlock tenses. Operating purely on instinct now, John runs his palms across his back ( _careful!_ ) and caresses the nape of his neck with his fingertips, enjoying the sensation of his smooth, thick curls winding around his fingers.

"All of it?" Sherlock asks flatly, very obviously fighting to make himself sound indifferent, his frantic pulse fluttering against John's lips the only thing betraying the fact that he's immensely upset. ( _Good upset? Bad?_ )

John nods, allowing his bottom lip to catch at Sherlock's hot, soft skin as he does it. 

Sherlock starts to pant and attempts to simultaneously get some distance between John's mouth and his neck and pull him even closer against his body by pressing his hands against the small of his back.

John laughs and surprises himself with it.

"You're sending confusing signals there," he says lowly.

Sherlock huffs, then clears his throat.

"Why are you here?" he asks.

John takes another deep breath and fills his lungs to the brim with Sherlock Sherlock  _Sherlock_.

"I wanted closure."

Sherlock is silent for a while.

"So I came back just in time," he then says, and there's a very subtle question mark hanging in the air when he's finished.

John raises his head, and they look at each other, nose to nose. Sherlock seems very young all of a sudden. There's longing in his eyes, and panic, and something that John can't read, something that makes him look breathtakingly beautiful.

In John's chest, fear and daring are battling for dominance. This is all going so fast. Two years' worth of bottled-up emotions are sweeping over him, carrying a landslide of unsaid things in their wake, and they need to be said now now _now_. Before it's too late again.

He has no idea if Sherlock has ever thought of him that way ( _of course he has, he's just_ said _so_ ). He's not sure what exactly it is that he wants from him ( _snogging against the kitchen counter, having honey-sweet tea in the early hours of the morning, sharing a pillow, seeing Sherlock naked, feeling Sherlock's body,_ tasting _it, Sherlock's face when he comes, Sherlock's face when he wakes up next to him, Sherlock, Sherlock,_ Sherlock). He's scared that what happened, what Sherlock did, will stand between them somehow.

"I want to know why, and what, and how, Sherlock," he tells him.

Sherlock nods. John looks at his lips, then back into his eyes. There's something running wild inside his stomach, making him ache with pleasant need all over, making him helplessly gravitate towards Sherlock, closer, ever  _closer_ , and it's so hard to resist.

"Okay," he says and thinks of Mary and feels guilty, but he can't stop now. He's lost this once before, and he's not going to lose it again this time. "But maybe we can get up and go inside? My legs are killing me. Do you still have furniture in there?"

Sherlock nods again.

"Everything is still there… Mrs Hudson's left everything exactly as it was."

He sounds so insecure, so unlike himself that it gives John a twinge.  _He's terrified_ , he thinks.  _Terrified of me. Of this._

"So… your bed's still there, too?" he asks and sends his friend a crooked smile, and his intention was to lighten the mood, but even as he says it, he feels Sherlock's muscles twitch as if he was readying himself to bolt.

No,  _no_.

John won't let him get away.

"No," he whispers and slides his palms downwards again, along Sherlock's sides, and then up his chest, until he can take his face into his hands. "No," he repeats. "Never again."

Sherlock blinks rapidly, and John knows that look. His brain is shutting down.

"Stay with me," John says softly. "Sherlock."

Surprisingly, it doesn't take as much courage as he would have expected – it comes quite naturally to him, in fact. He closes the distance between their faces and kisses Sherlock, very tenderly and yet with enough determined pressure to show him what this is about, and that it's  _alright_ , and when the other man opens his mouth to let him in and their tongues touch for the very first time, he thinks that maybe the why and what and how can wait.

Sherlock tastes lovely, sweet and spicy and unique, and his lips are so soft as they move against his own. It's delicious, and exciting, and so, so _right_.

When Sherlock's breathing grows heavy and his fingers make their way into John's hair, John forgets why he was scared.

They're crouching on the dusty floor in front of their old flat, wrapped in Sherlock's coat, kissing as if there was no tomorrow.

The rest can wait.

_Sherlock, falling._

_Emptiness. Regret._   _Mary._

_Closure._

For this one endless, precious moment,  _everything_  can wait.


End file.
